The Felicity Chamber

[Silence Sei]

Round 2 starts Friday Night/Saturday Morning at 12:01 AM CST. This Chamber will include

Breaker
Herald of the Tempest
Enigmatic Immortal
Abomination
Mage Hunter
Reine

Chapter Two.....FIGHT!

[Silence Sei]

He looked over all of the tables in the lunch room. This place had seen more battles in the history of Ixian Castle than the actual training grounds. The checkered linoleum floor would soon be stained with crimson liquids. The long tables stretched out the whole mile and half, orange and blue stools connected to the varnished redwood tables. Six rows of tables, each nearly a mile long. They would make for great cover for the clever fighter, or a great bludgeon for a powerful one. There was about ten feet of spacing between each row of tables, and at the end of the mess hall was the food line, a smorgasbord of both hot and cold food filling the buffet. People were making plates, stacking food as high as they possibly could before taking their places. The barrier ended where the tables did, protecting any spectators busily grabbing a meal to watch the show.

The rays of light from the windows above gave a warm feel inside the large room, and soon it would fill with six more competitors ready to strike at each other once more. By now, the warriors chosen for the next round had been selected, and deigned to either enter the mess hall or the dungeon. Their abilities would be restored, their bodies mended. Within the crowd, more enforcers had been called in to deliver retribution to those that broke the rules. It would be a good second round.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you Round Two of the Cell! And here are your warriors!"

[Herald of the Tempest]

He awoken with a start. It was one pulse of life. A spark of energy, and Vyrabond lived again. His arms were crossed against his chest, fully repaired and no longer bent or dented. His jaw was firmly locked in place as he slept, and his green eyes were alight with ill intent. He dropped out of his resurrection chamber landing on the ground with a thud. His hands fell to the ancient stone steps of the palace of the Storm Herald. Two Kron’tyr constructs approached the warrior, bowing low and dropping to one knee.

“The human settlers of the Ixian Knights have named you a champion. You are to return to their tournament and fight. This is by the Will of our Lord of the Tempest, Herald of the Storm; Eternal may his reign be!” Vyrabond knelt to one knee, one hand crossing his chest in a fist of salute. He rose, tapping his fingers across his chest plate in Kron’tyr Morse code. His reply was simple acknowledgment. He turned to the awaiting portal at the end of the chamber, his face locked in a permanent frown, but his inner logic processors alight with excitement to fight the lesser races again.

He knew not what to expect as his body entered into the dimensional gate, his atoms being ripped apart and catapulted across space and time itself at speeds incomprehensible to even the most intelligent of minds. He easily kept his gait as he disengaged from the gateway, several spectators alarmed to see the Kron’tyr step forwards through thin air. He brought his hands out to his sides, his talons releasing with a scrapping sound. He crossed each blade in a loud grating fashion, and his mouth piece chewed on air as if he could taste the prey that awaited him.

His logic sensors gave him a one hundred percent mortality rate. There would be no chance of survival in this chamber. Yet he didn’t fear death, even if he couldn‘t simply reanimate. As a construct he could not process such complex emotions such as fright and terror. Hope and happiness were also lost to him, but excitement, and caution, base emotions, those were still offered to him. So it was he let them both fill her sensory passages, feeling the killers instinct start to take over.

When it was time he dove into the arena already choosing his prey of choice. The female drow, listed by the Ixian Invitational as a Mage Hunter and known as Drusilla. She would feel the caress of his claws across her throat, or he would die trying. He wasted no time closing the gap on her, holding one hand back and reaching out to grasp her throat with the other.

[Mage Hunter]

Smoke lit up in the air as the monks worked and fretted over the form before them. They would continue to poke and prod, in small bursts until the figure would gesture them off, forcing them to forgo the treatment continuing it was touch and go as each time they would have slightly less time, until the figure began the dry heaving and restarting the process all over again. It took agonizing hours for the life they were obsessed with healing. When it was done the figure looked over her gear, reworked and patched by someone else, as she had the time and the coin to pay for such an endeavor.

Once the process was complete Drusilia Liadon, sole survivor of the Emma Chamber, took a long drag of the cigarette bummed off a wanderer that had come to watch the blood sports. She coughed, not quite used to the acrid taste of the tobacco, but shook it off as she moved to grab the artic hide that had saved her life from the Teifling last round. She had never gotten his name, but surely by now he had heard of the dismemberment of his corpse. It was a petty thing, shoving the man’s genitals in his mouth, but it had felt so right. She was making a name for herself; the fight against Xem’zund was only the beginning. This tournament would be how she forged it, and not putting up with people’s nonsense would be the first step she’d take.

The armor donned she looked upon the blades, cleaned and blade sharpened. She hefted the first one and carefully looked it over before she nodded and placed it in the sheath at the small of her back. It was then she hefted her preferred blade carefully looking over the blade with even more a critical eye. Not a single chip or smudge of blood upon it. Not a solitary speck of dirt the blade was immaculate. Her eye went to the setting; the stone set there looked plain, unremarkable. To the uncaring it was just a rock, for Drusilia it was one of her lifelines in a world full of magic waiting for her to stumble and fail.

Carefully this one was sheathed at her back, the reverence of the action belying how much she cared about that sword. That blade, it had grown to be her favorite for many reasons. One was it was the blade she had initially fought Godhand Striker, the legendary Mercenary who had not returned when they had gone after Xem’Zund. To think, the man had not cared what others thought, he fought for the simple sake that it made him money. There was no ulterior motive in his heart it was always about the money.

She could almost respect that, as shallow the motive was.

The cigarette hung from her lips as she heard the announcement that she had moved on. She let a snort of derision cross her lips as she thought back towards the voice, Thanks for the heads up.

Snark firmly in place the Mage Hunter moved towards the place that would be her chamber. The crowds had already begun to form about the place, a throng of stupid sheep looking for their fix of blood and death for the year. She ignored the cat calls and the begging for her attention, always focusing on arena, drinking in the details. A discarded plate here, a bit of food that could be used there, this place was a plethora of potential. Nodding she pushed through the throng entering the arena. The mystics had formed a human shield between the combatants and the crowd, allowing her to enter the arena before using their magic to erect the true barrier from outside interference.

Her eyes settled on the other competitors, and she still refrained from getting a truer sense of their strength. Detecting magical auras was always a risk, as she wasn’t strong enough to be able to gaze upon the stronger ones. So, she would have to deal without that knowledge and would have to assume anyone who came at her was like the Tiefling Not-Mage she had faced last round. The barrier erected, and with its rising the fighting began, everyone changed. Immediately that killer instinct that had been drilled into the Kyorl trained Drow went into overdrive as one competitor ran down the isles. Her eyes narrowed as she witnessed the construct from last round charging forward, arms outstretched in an attempt to tear out her throat. She let out a derisive snort as she moved forward a couple of steps, moving into the charge only to kick the nearby end of a bench hard, the wood creaked against the floor causing a barrier between her and her erstwhile attacker before she pulled her blade and stabbed it towards the constructs chest, bracing her boot against the polished wood. A grin lit up her eyes before she said, “You’d think after the last idiot charged me you’d have put that in whatever passes as a brain for you. I guess your creator forgot to give you smarts when he programmed you to fight.”

[Abomination]

Anyone fighting Draug can bunny him.

Draug walked through the empty halls, blood dripping from from his entire body, most of it not even his. His steps were arduous, the sound echoing deep into the castle. There was no fanfare for his victory; no cheering, applause, not even jeers of hate. Stunned silence was all he received, and as the barrier reluctantly let up, he limped off his grand stage from which he was the only survivor. Alone, he felt as though he would get jumped at any moment by the remaining Ixians, to take him out while they still could. They were letting him walk, the sole representative of the Cult in this tournament, and he had no further business in this competition. Leaving a trail of blood, he grunted with each movement, his face turning pale from the blood loss. He was well below the amount of blood needed to sustain an average human being, but the Abomination could survive.

This is your mistake, Ixians... To not finish me off while you still had the chance.

Something fell to the ground in front of him. He looked down and saw a silver comb, and was compelled to lean down and pick it up. When his eyes returned to the hallway, a young girl was standing in front of him. For the first time today, his heart skipped a beat. Overwhelming feelings that were buried deep inside came to the surface, feelings of love, passion, anxiety, and hate.

She stood there with a kind expression and a simple smile, wearing only a flowing white night gown. Her stark white hair fell down to her waist, and she opened her hands. As if moving on its own accord, he dropped the comb into her hands, but that was not enough for her. She grabbed his bloody palms and squeezed them.

In a soft voice, she asked, "My Precious One, where are you going?" It was Catherine, Cassandra's daughter. Imbued with powers that Draug could not understand, her presence was otherworldly. Draug could not help but love her, and yet he hated himself for these programmed feelings. "The next chamber, it is in the other direction."

Draug wanted to go back to the Cult, to have Memnar attempt to repair his stolen memories and find something useful. He felt in his core that the secret to greater power was attainable. Yet, he was helpless to Catherine's whims.

"You must go," she said. "I shall be watching." That was it. Draug's desires were overwritten, and he found himself walking in the other direction. The comb was still in his hand, and his body knew the outrage of his situation as it attempted to destroy the object. Yet, it did not break. Every time he tried to summon the strength, it faded, replaced by undying devotion and compassion. He saved her once as a ghoul, a mindless wreck that only served to satisfy himself. Whether or not it was an accident, it was the catalyst that had him chosen as Cassandra's son. Since then, his strongest feelings have been for her. Even though he wanted to live, to achieve the same goal as his mother, he would still use himself as a human shield for Catherine at any moment. She had more influence over him than Cassandra herself.

Apprehensively, the monks treated him, and when he found himself in the dining hall, wearing his cloak with his bandages completely repaired, he felt better than ever. His movements were sharper, his perception more focused, and battle sense more refined. Memnar could wait, he thought, as there was more improvement to be done. Before him was the start of the long redwood tables, and behind him were the observers, all of which reinvigorated with hope that Draug could be defeated.

This is different... Exactly who was in this chamber that could do such a thing? He made a few arrangements before the tournament started, but he did not know who was participating in this round. A few plates with leftover food were on the table before him, filling the air with the sweet aroma of animal bones and fruit. The Abomination grabbed some of the plates and smashed them into the linoleum floor. While they shattered, it did not look like that the flooring was actually being affected. The barrier was more strict this time around, he figured. Scooping up the remaining shards of the plates, he poured them down his throat, letting them mix around his body and find their appropriate place.

He needed tools like the explosive bags in his body, and the broken pieces would serve as shrapnel inside the bags. While the monks restored his body, they could not restore his alchemical ability, the one that served to do Jensen Ambrose in. No, that was something Cassandra's chief advisor and head alchemist Memnar had given him as a one time use. The alchemist questioned revealing this type of trick in a tournament which ultimately had no consequences, but Draug told him that he needed to constantly adapt, to learn more so that he could think up new ways of defeating his opponents. A move that only worked once should only be used once, he felt.

He looked back one last time before heading out towards the center of the chamber, looking for Catherine. She was there, he felt it. He could not see her directly, but he sensed her eyes on him like puppet strings. He clenched his fists and moved on, vowing to free himself of these petty obligations and emotions.

She would be the first one he killed when he was free.

[Enigmatic Immortal]

Darkness invaded every nook of his psyche. A void of eternal night and emptiness left the immortal uncomfortable. No sound was made, he could hear nothing, but in his own personal hell he screamed. Overkill was a state of bodily damage that defied traditional death by warfare. Whatever the hell Draug Remi did, it was effective and did what many had tried to do but failed.

Energy lanced around his heart coiling in arcs of lightning like the grasping claws of a predator. Jensen felt it expand to his lungs creating a searing pain, white flashes drawing across the darkness like a knife. He felt the eldritch power spin in his chest, pulling pieces of his severed neck bones together and melding them back as another energy, more pure and homely, continued to work in sync with his Breath of the Undying. Green tendrils rolled around his limbs, awakening muscles that had fallen asleep creating a tingling sensation, and soon the world that Jensen lived in had sound.

It was muffled and distant. It called to him, crying out to him. He lifted his fingers, drumming them upon the cold metal surface. The energy pulsed back and forth, growing in power and strength as the eldritch lightning soared towards his heart after reaching each end of his body. It jolted upwards like a geyser making several Ai’Bron monks and medical officers of the Ixian Knights jump in alarm, and with a crescendo of illuminating beauty it slammed into Jensen’s heart.

He shrieked with agony clutching his chest pulling his shirt and coat into a knot as he breathed heavily. He sweated down his face like he had ran a mile, searching each corner of the room with hysterical glances. A comforting hand touched his back gently, soothing his nerves as Jensen shook his head rapidly to clear the post-death jitters.

“Welcome back,” a feminine voice soothingly spoke. Jensen took in several deep breaths with his eyes shut, softly letting go of his grip on his own clothing. He at last managed to regain control of his senses and turned his head to see Aislinn’s cold blue eyes. Her head cocked to one side, a knowing look on her features as if she was about to say something, but wasn’t sure how to proceed. Jensen returned the look with a blank stare, before he winked and made a move to touch her hip. With a raised eyebrow she gave him a dark look and Jensen lowered his perverted digits, but still kept the grin. “I will admit, the Ai’Bron monks do good work, but you’re immortality does go ’wonky’ when they interrupt the process.”

“Is that why you are looking at me funny? They messed up my beautiful face didn’t they?” Jensen snapped his fingers at a passing orderly. “You, skinny! Mirror, now!” Jensen waved him off and kicked his legs over the side of the table and looked to Aislinn. She gave him a sardonic look, but even she, with all her icy ways, couldn’t hide the small grin on the side of her face. Jensen kept his grin up, but he failed to hold memories started to flood his mind. He growled lowly, and looked to her with a more determined grimace. “I don’t know what that abomination did, but at least the bastard was killed.”

To the witch’s credit Aislinn didn’t drop her demeanor and kept eye contact, but her silence was almost as if she was screeching in his ear. Jensen felt his teeth grind against one another. His tension began to build like the rising tide and Aislinn spoke in a clear, concise manner. “He somehow learned your dirty habit of staying alive even after death. It was clear you killed him, there’s no doubt of that,” she said crossing her arms and leaning on her back leg. “But he lived, and somehow dealt the damage back to you. With Crozius in his hands, that thing went on a rampage. He killed Arden, one of the lesser knowns, and Talen bowed out before he too was killed.”

“Three Captains!” Jensen’s jaw dropped in shock. “He just walked through three of the Ixian’s generals like that?” He snapped his fingers and shook his head angrily. “What the fuck is he made of?”

“He’s obviously some sort of construct, but who made him is still a mystery. Regardless Jensen, the audience has cried out your name the loudest in the cell’s conclusion. You've advanced to the next round. I suspect my Uncle had a hand in arranging a little something for you,” Aislinn now winked, turning so her loin cloth skirt swayed, her boots tapping against the stone floor. “Redemption will be yours Jensen. Give the Cult hell.”

Jensen nodded to her, hopping off the table and heading towards the entrance. He passed by the table where blood was pooled at the head making Jensen ponder who it was. Regardless of the previous rounds events, Jensen pushed the dark thoughts out of his mind. Draug had caught him off guard with a play that was powerful, but not easily set up. Now that the immortal knew his trick he wouldn't fall prey to it again. He looked to the entrance portal to the medical ward spotting the brown scroll nailed to the door. He read the assignments for the next rounds arenas and smiled.

“The dining hall, huh?” Jensen muttered with a dark chuckle. “Looks like Sei is giving the Enigmatic Immortal the home field advantage.”

((All bunnying approved by me. Draug... Shall we continue the dance?))

[Reine]

Round two, here I come!

Somehow, even after being killed in a not so pleasant manner, Faelynn found herself advanced to the next round of this horrendously torturous eve--lovely tournament run by oh so benevolent Sei Orlouge and the amazing Ixian Knights.

No reading my thoughts now, ya damn psychic bastard.

Jared had said if she put her everything into it, she had a chance of winning. She never would have entered if she thought her only goal in this would be to lose. She'd planned on winning. Already had a nice victory speech picked out when she stood over Joshua Cronen's corpse and the pile of the rest of them. Of course, after what happened in the first round, she realized the likelihood of that was slim at best and more than not, an impossibility. The man had deflected everything she'd thrown at him as if her attacks were nothing more than annoying insects. Fast, ruthless and deadly accurate in all of his moves, he would make one hell of a mentor.

The thought lingered in her mind.

Fae had Oberon for the spear, Seth for stealth, reconnaisance and dagger wielding, and Jared for lock picking. But no one to teach her hand-to-hand combat, which is something Cronen more than excelled at.

She pushed the ludicrous idea aside before it could completely form. Joshua Cronen was one of Althanas' greats. He'd never be interested in training her.

Turning from her new cage, a mess hall of all things, Fae looked up into the crowd for a familiar face. In the brief interim between rounds, she'd gotten a chance to see Jared Cesarino. If only long enough for a comforting hug, a kiss and a couple reassuring words. He'd promised to be more visible in the crowd this time, though she could tell from the pained expression on his face that watching her fight was taking a toll on her red headed thief.

It was that red hair that finally allowed her to pick him out of a sea of faces. A huge grin broke across her face as she waved enthusiastically at him and she could see the answering smile from him. Then her eyes travelled to the two men who just sat down to his left and Faelynn froze, feeling all the colour drain from her face.

-----------------------------

"Seriously, Ferynn, how much longer can you possibly take?"

Ferynn reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger, trying very hard not to snap at Connaire and somehow, miraculously, succeeding. The man had no patience and the attention span of a hyperactive squirrel. Taking a deep breath, he held it and counted to three before slowly releasing it and looking the merchant in his dull, flat grey eyes. They reminded him of low quality steel. The kind he wouldn't even use to make nails out of.

"Throw in ten pounds of high grade Prevalida, while you're at it." A smirk of greed passed over the middle aged man's lips. Prevalida was pricey stuff and didn't he know it. "And yes, I know the difference. If it doesn't gleam the colour of the bluest moon when it gets to me, you'll be sorry." He growled.

He was taking his frustration on Connaire out on the merchant, but he didn't care. Gave the man more incentive not to try and screw with him. Honestly, these Radasanthian merchants thought they could pull the wool over his eyes because he came from what they considered to be a backwards piss-water town. Underwood, in more ways than one, greatly surpassed the cesspool Radasanth had turned into.

"That's a lot of Prevalida." Connaire whistled as the two men exchanged papers with one another. No money would actually be given until the goods arrived at his shop in Underwood. He was no fool.

"Faelynn's day of birth is a couple months away." He said pointedly.

A wistful smile passed across his best friend's face. "Ah yes, I remember the very nice thank you I received for the last gift we sent her--" Ferynn punched him in the arm, "ow!"

"Stop thinking about my sister with that gross, perverted brain of yours."

His friend grumbled and rubbed his arm. Though Ferynn knew there was nothing between Connaire and Fae, the two of them did seem to have this odd, overly friendly relationship.

"I'm surprised you two aren't down at the tournament." The merchant said, Ferynn had already forgotten his name. He tended not to remember useless people.

"Tournament?" Connaire asked, a bright spark of excitement lighting his eyes.

"Aye, The Cell is going on down at Ixian Castle. I hear some big names entered this year too."

Ferynn frowned and knew exactly what was coming next.

"Sweet! I love tournaments. The last Cell was fantastic!" Connaire practically jumped in place with barely contained excitement. "Come on, hurry up with your purchase so we can go!"

"You know I don't like tournaments..." He growled.

In fact, he hated them. In his mind, bloodying people up just for the sheer fun and sport of it was not something he found entertaining. Yes, he was a blacksmith, but he made plenty of things besides weapons. Plenty more useful things, if anyone asked him. Not that they did.

"Please, Rynn, just this once! It's been so boring without Fae around, this'll be a nice change of pace." Ferynn glared at his best friend, who barely blinked at the withering look in his eyes. "Hey, you dragged me all the way to Radasanth to keep you company, the least you can do is let me get a couple hours of enjoyment from it."

If he refused, it would be all Connaire complained about for weeks. Then again, if they went, he'd talk about how 'awesome' and 'amazing' the darn thing had been for weeks. So he was obviously screwed either way.

"Fine." He spat out.

*~*

Ferynn moved through the mess hall, glancing around with curiosity. It was his first time inside Ixian Castle and it was slightly impressive. The high ceilings and large, wooden beams bigger than his waist. The huge windows allowing in the hot summer sun and illuminating the grey bricks and rows and rows of long tables. The smell of food lingered in the air, doing a poor job to disguise the smell of so many bodies crammed into one place. It was crowded. He hated crowds. No matter where he stood someone bumped into him, jostling him. He just needed to find a place away from the main crowd, where Connaire wouldn't complain he couldn't see anything nd these damn people would stop touching him.

Spotting an empty area next to some red headed guy, who looked slightly more put together than the rest of them, Ferynn led Connaire over there and took a seat.

"Looks like we missed the first round." Connaire said. They could have missed the whole thing and he would have been just peachy with it. "Probably for the best. All the weaklings get picked off in the first round. Now we can watch the real fighting."

Oh yeah, real fighting.

Sighing, Ferynn looked down towards the arena and went cold. A low growl bubbled up in his throat, like the sound of a mountain shifting.

"We're leaving." He snapped. When he went to move though, Connaire shoved him back into his seat.

"No, we're not. You said I could watch the tournament and I'm holding you to it."

His jaw clenched so tightly he was amazed he didn't break a tooth. "Follow my line of sight, Connaire." He ground out.

From the corner of his eye, he watch his friend do just that and then nearly face planted with his reaction.

"Is that Faelynn!? It is Fae!" He stood up and waved enthusiastically at her.

Ferynn never took his eyes off his sister as he watched her hesitantly return the wave, her face a sheet of white. Oh, there would be hell to pay for this when she came home. More hell than she would know what to do with.

Despite the look of pure terror on her face, he had to admit, Fae looked better than last he'd seen her. Amalia, the weapon he'd given to her to protect herself with, rested on her back and that damn thieving outfit covered the rest of her. Those black and purple shorts and matching jacket, not to mention The Iron Shackles. He never should have given her those stupid things. She'd put on more muscle too, though she did appear to be a little on the pale side. The girl loved the sun. He often found her just lying on the roof of their house basking in it.

Her eyes darted to his right and Ferynn glanced over at that red headed pretty boy sitting next to him. They regarded each other with matching looks of wary and curiosity, before Ferynn turned and watched his little sister walk towards the fighting pit while every instinct inside of him screamed to stop her. His scared hands were white knuckled fists resting on his thighs.

[Enigmatic Immortal]

Jensen's approached the mess hall with apprehension. His thoughts were on his previous battle sifting through all the information that he learned about Draug; the abomination. He had never before encountered such a creature and as such he didn't quite know what to do when he faced him the first time. He had quickly adapted to each move Jensen did and left him very little breathing room. He had no time for doubts however, and instead focused on what he knew would work against the son of Cassandra. His speed would surely be tested yet again and his agility would also be pushed to its and limits.


The immortal approached the portal leading into the chamber of the new round stopping just before an official event coordinator. He looked to the woman with soft eyes and a warm, genuine smile. It took a moment to realize who was approaching her, but once she realized who it was her official demeanor seemed to diminish - only slightly - as she crossed the distance to meet up with the knight.

"It's good to see you, Jensen," Anita Orlouge said warmly, her hands tapping the back of her clipboard. Jensen pointed to the paperwork in her hand raising an eyebrow. She sighed, letting out a path of breath, and flip the board so he could see what it was in her hands. "These things? They're all the paperwork of every entrants items of personal possession. I'm in charge of making sure everyone gets back everything they are entitled to at the end of each round. Speaking of which, I have stuff for you." With the snap of her fingers a few soldiers of the Ixian Knights hurried over carrying a satchel full of items that looked far too heavy for a single man to carry. They dropped off the bag in front of the immortal as Anita checked off each item inside softly counting out the number of daggers throwing glaives, and his personal war maul and switchblade scythe.

"How's morale," Jensen asked, his words a breath of a whisper speaking in a low hushed tone. Anita fidgeted for a moment before she gave him a straight answer releasing a deep breath.

"Not very high I must admit," she muttered back. Jensen nodded in agreement looking around. He sighed softly, and patting her on the shoulder he approached the entryway into the cell.

"It can't all be bad," Jensen said with a grin feeling his stomach begin to boil over with dark chuckles. "It's double stuffed potato day."

Anita looked to the immortal watching him, unsure if what she heard was actually true. When she saw his eyes were filled with that warm glow, but also that determination that made him who he was she felt her own spirits raise as she nodded to him.

Jensen made sure he had all his items, and then turned away from the Cell, heading out the gates towards the main courtyard. He just didn't care so much about the glory and fame this tournament was supposed to garner, and honestly, he didn't have it within him to care anymore. There were more pressing matters than the glory of slaughtering people for blood sport.

Let them cheer for other's deaths. Let them clap and cry for death. They could rally behind their chosen champions all they want, too scared to face the world on their own or fight themselves. Jensen had something else on his mind, and he was more than content the other Ixian Captain's could handle the show themselves.

He had someone who needed to be killed, and wasting his time in this tournament was giving them longer to prepare for their master plan. Besides, instead of letting Draug learn more about the immortal, he would give him a new problem to adapt to.

"I'm coming for your mommy," Jensen snickered, thinking of Draug's face when he killed Cassandra Remi.

[Breaker]

Joshua Cronen walked away from the drying site of the Ella Chamber, arms around his two most trusted companions. Jake Narmolanya - the wiry green-eyed half elf with hair like a dirty straw mop - kept heartily patting Josh's shoulder, stinging a cut left by a Coralian shortsword. Stacia Alliendra - the slim young woman with creamy skin and gold streaking her cherry hair - flicked deep blue eyes from the gash on Cronen's cheek to the bruise blossoming on his bare chest, and then to the contusion on his temple. As if she couldn't decide which wound worried her the most, and wanted to spread her concern equally. Early afternoon sun warmed their backs as they strode in rough unison toward the distant walls of Ixian Castle. They were looking forward to a leisurely meal and some strategic discussion when the shuffling short-legged gait of a running dwarf hailed them from behind.

Terech Bodorson's heavy boots crunched through loam and then pounded over dead grass, but his baritone voice drowned the sound of his feet.

"Breaker! Slow down by the blood and blazes," panted the Master of Ravenheart Academy. Bodorson seemed to have endless endurance in his classes and in combat, but disliked running for any reason. He halted before them, stomach expanding and flattening as he breathed, hems of his tabard dancing against boulder-like abdominals.

"What's put your color off, Master Bodorson?" Stacia asked with a shallow curtsy. The Scara Braean woman often used courtly expressions at undeserving times, but her question struck the anvil square in the center. Bodorson's face was redder than the parts of his hair and beard not gone to grey.

"They've added a second round," Terech gasped as he regained his breath, "I mean, a third. A middle round, before the finals. It starts in thirty bloody minutes."

The mood amongst the trio could not have changed faster if the Dwarf had sung his report laced with Raiaeran magic. Joshua's triumphant expression changed to one of cold calculation and contemplation. Jacob's face erupted like a volcano and he swore and broke away from his friends to spit in the dirt. Stacia simply looked horrified. She'd come to support Josh through Corone's bloodiest tourny. He was the man who had shown her a life outside the servitude she'd been born into. The Sheriff who had made her feel so safe in Underwood during the Civil War. But she didn't know if she could stomach watching two repeats of what had happened in the Ella Chamber.

"Jake," Breaker snapped, adapting to the situation with his usual alacrity, "the list. At once please." He ripped the gorestained denim cloth from his shoulders and handed Jake the dehlar bastard sword he had slung across his back, its blade still stained with blood. Josh turned to the young woman. "Stacia... to the Castle if you would." He placed an encouraging hand on her shoulder, easing the tension in her neck. "If you find out any news, be ready to break it when Bodorson and I arrive."

The two youths sprinted in opposite directions without question. Stacia held her green silken skirts high as she ran, cherry hair streaming in her wake. She had been trained as an upper class whore by those who did it best since a young age. The call girls provided by the Scara Braean Sisterhood knew more than how to warm a man's bed; they could mingle with scullions and social elite with equal ease. If someone at Ixian knew something of worth about the upcoming melee, Stacia would discover it.

Jake skidded to a halt between a gnarled yew and a shattered oak that stood sentinel along Concordia's fringe. The half elf had brought the foursome there with his potent portal magic prior to the first round. Jake paused with a hand inside his sifan jacket, and a moment later one of his patented wooden doorways burst from the ground. Pulling a slip of paper from his pocket, Jake ducked through the door and it vanished along with him as it closed.

The first round of the Cell had gone according to plan, as much as any battle ever could. Cronen had intended to win it while taking minimal damage and limiting the powers he displayed. Aside from a few mishaps caused by the surprising strength of a Coralian who'd covered the arena in rapidly rising water, the plan was successful. Cronen couldn't help but smile as he met Bodorson's old grey eyes with his energetic hazel ones. Many warriors believed the uncontrollable nature of a fight made planning pointless, but such bruisers seldom reached the age of Terech Bodorson, or the skill level of Joshua Cronen. The Dwarf had suggested Breaker hold back in the first round and then burst into the finals with improved weaponry and powers blazing. Good thing we gave Jake the list beforehand, Josh thought, he should make it back in time. It seemed Sei Orlouge, the tournament Grandmaster, had changed the rules, and their strategy would adapt accordingly.

"What d'you reckon?" Bodorson asked as they followed Stacia's footprints toward the castle. The dwarf took two steps to match every one from the long-legged man.

"I don't know," Josh mused honestly, considering Sei's possible motivations. "We heard his daughter Kyla was competing. Perhaps she fell, and he's providing a second chance?" Josh scratched at the stubble on his chin and the seeping gash on his cheek, thinking deeply.

"The shadow mage?" Bodorson asked rhetorically, "Nay, she fought well by all accounts. More like than not the Mystic be conjurin' extra bloodshed to satiate the crowd." The dwarf gestured with both arms at the growing groups of people who swarmed toward the castle like many-legged molasses.

"The plan stays the same, I'd think," Josh said, and Terech nodded his agreement. "After the events in Ella, I'm sure Sei will match me with the hardiest killers." He sucked air through his teeth as he touched the contusion on his temple left by one Flint Skovic, easily his worst wound of the round. "So I'd best slay them quickly."

"Aye," Terech said, touching his own forehead unconsciously while watching Josh prod the contusion, "if ye' can keep somethin' as a secret for the finals 'twould serve ye' well, but focus on the fight first. Ye' still must win."

Bodorson described what he'd heard of the fiercest warriors in the other two Chambers while they strolled amidst late-Autumn wind and sun. They passed beneath the stone arch that topped the castle's open gates and strode with increasing purpose through the entry hall. Without a firm idea of where to go they followed the flow of gawkers down winding hallways that eventually opened to the mess hall. They'd entered through the entrance opposite the buffet tables and saw Stacia immediately. She was curtsying and nodding at anyone who came close and then wringing her hands and looking about until she spotted Joshua's broad shoulders maneuvering through the masses.

"Here!" She cried, raising both hand and voice above the cacophony of the crowd. "Josh!" She said softly as she leaned in close, raising on tiptoe to speak in his ear, "I wish it were someone else to tell you this, but they've matched you with--"

"Faelynn." Breaker finished the sentence as he saw Fae's black-clad form. He'd been forced to kill the thief - the slip of a girl who he'd practically watched grow up - in order to win the first round. And now Sei has set her in front of me again. Is this some sick initiation? Being Chief Investigator to the Ixian Knights was not worth slaughtering young women. Not by Breaker's rules. He whipped his head back and forth, searching for Sei but failing to find the mysterious mystic.

"Twasn't what I intended to say," Stacia blushed 'till her scalp matched the roots of her hair, "they've matched you with the drowess, the Abomination, and the Immortal." She glanced over her shoulder to confirm what Josh had seen and then nodded. "And Faelynn."

"The drowess, the Abomination, and the Immortal," Bodorson repeated, ticking them off on thick callused fingers, "aye Breaker, ye' were right. Orlouge has faced ye' off against the deadliest from Anita and Emma Chambers."

"And Faelynn." Josh repeated, voice like a clock striking midnight. If he had glanced to his right he would have seen Fae's brother, might have refused to enter the designated area and sought Sei out instead to question the mute's morals. But at that moment Jake arrived at his left elbow, bent almost double beneath the weight of what he had purchased at the Bazaar with Breaker's gold.

The greatsword was everything Bodorson had described when writing down the specifications. Forged around the original dehlar of Cronen's battle-honored bastard sword, its long grooved hilt was made of that same soft, heavy metal. But the hilt shone blue in the light from vaulted windows, denoting the best quality of prevaldia available for purchase. The broad blade, concealed within a dragonscale sheathe that sported several bulging pockets, was made from the same deadly metal.

Bodorson took the sheathed greatsword from the overladen half elf and held it parallel to the floor in both hands.

"She should have a name, 'afore ye' take her into combat." The dwarf said matter-of-factly.

When did my sword become a woman? Josh wondered as he sorted through the sack Jake handed him. It contained a kimono he would save for the final round, but also a long dehlar cable which he drew out and wound around and around his abdomen, finally looping the loose end around both shoulders to leave it dangling in front of his chest.

"What will you call her, Josh?" Jake asked as he and Stacia both ran inquisitive fingers along the coarse sheathe.

"She must have a fearsome name. A warrior's name," Stacia added as she grated the sword's pommel with a painted nail.

I'll call her anything you want, just so long as I don't have to cut Fae down again, Josh thought, but their enthusiasm had sparked a memory. A woman's name. A warrior's name. A Salvic beauty he'd met in years long past fit that description, her face swimming in his mind as clearly as if he'd last seen her that morning. Kristina. But that would not strike fear in the hearts of his enemies.

"Rythadine," he said. It was the Salvic Valkyrie's surname. The name she shared with her father, who had crafted the enchanted black boots Breaker wore on the linoleum. The name she shared with her brother, whom Josh had sworn to track down but never found. A good name to carry with him at all times. A good name to remember always.

"Rythadine," Bodorson said with reverence, and bared an inch of blue blade. His thickly callused thumb was tough but the greatsword's edge cut it like cake. Crimson droplets flowed into the broad weapon's drain veins, and Bodorson sheathed it, the ritual complete.

Josh slung the scaly scabbard across both shoulders and knelt to embrace the dwarf. Bodorson bopped him under the chin wit ha big fist and muttered something about finding a seat he could see from, and then scuttled toward the tallest chairs. Josh stood and wrapped his arms around Jake, whispering thanks for the youth's speedy delivery. He turned to Stacia last, but a young woman wearing Ai'Brone robes and a shaved pate had stepped between them.

"Forgive me Lord Breaker," she said with the half-bow and downcast eyes of a novice in the order. When did the monks start accepting women into their ranks? Josh wondered, feeling as if the surprises would never end. "It is my pleasure to offer healing before the second round begins." The woman continued, stretching out a tentative hand.

"I don't need to be hea--" Josh started to say, but then saw the worry in her eyes. Her robes named her a novice, the lowest in the Ai'Brone order, and although they'd clearly accepted her despite her anatomy, she was surely an exception to the rule. A novice whom all of the upper Order would scrutinize, searching out her every mistake and holding it as evidence against her and her gender. Josh's blood boiled, and for the first time he felt glad at the prospect of entering the Felicity Chamber. It was full of those who deserved his wrath.

"My apologies," he said through gritted teeth, offering the novice a muscular arm, "I accept with gratitude."

Her touch was like all the ice in Salvar shooting through a pinprick in his skin. The chilling sensation washed through his torso, closing the cuts on his flank and shoulder and dyeing the bruise on his chest back to a normal tanned skin tone. The contusion on his temple fell in on itself and the identical ache on the far side of his brain vanished. Even his legs, made weary by his efforts in the Ella Chamber, felt as fresh as if he'd woken from a restful sleep. The female novice nodded in response to his murmured thanks, her bald head shining in the sunlight, and swept away through the growing crowd.

Stacia replaced her and threw slim arms around his neck, almost leaping off the balls of her feet to plant a rougey kiss on his forehead.

Josh grinned, feeling the wet red outline of her lips above his brow. He had worn such a kiss on his cheek into the first round and emerged victorious. In Stacia's mind, he knew that more than justified the repetition.

Breaker breathed deeply as he walked away from his well-wishing friends and into the Felicity Chamber. He felt the Mystic wall snap into place behind him, the last contestant to enter the hall of battle. His stomach expanded against the cable wrapped 'round his abdomen as he breathed in. The ends of his knotted red belt slapped against denim-clad thighs as he exhaled and jumped onto the first table in one of the middle rows. It creaked beneath his weight but the redwood timbers held firm. Cronen frowned, looking down at the bloodstained pants which had been immaculate white that morning. They would serve as a constant reminder of what this middle round was - a bloodsport. A match orchestrated not to determine the champion, but to display the deadliest arts in Althanas.

Breaker stood a visionary amongst such artists.

Close-cropped brown hair fanned around his face as he sprinted the length of the hall, leaping from surface to surface as necessary. He stepped with such speed his boots blurred as they shattered ceramic dishes and scattered silverware, whipping up leaves of lettuce in their slipstream.

The scaled sheathe rasped like a waking dragon as he drew Rythadine with a long twisting motion and swung the greatsword to a high guard. As he raced past each opponent he struck with such swiftness and surgical precision many of the spectators may have thought he merely ran past. But the sound of the blade cleaving air as he pounded by on the table nearest to each opponent could not be mistaken.

Whummm went the sword as he flashed past the drowess, a slash aimed to seperate both her and her opponent's torsos from their legs.

Whummm Rythadine sang as her broad blade descended at the Abomination's gruesome neck.

Thrumm the final attack whispered, a thrust meant to punch the Immortal's spine through his skin.

Josh pushed himself 'till he was panting like Bodorson and skidded to a stop amidst the last table in the row, having sprinted the length of the hall in perhaps twenty seconds. His boots sent a leftover plate of meatloaf sailing to shatter on the Mystic barrier. The spectators beyond roared and poured wine down their throats, begging for blood to wash the translucent wall as the meatloaf had. Josh roared back with such force several people in the front row choked on their food. He hopped off the table, rotated in midair and cut it in half with a lazy sweep of his greatsword. The tabletop caved downward and Josh slashed twice more, breaking the halves into manageable pieces. He grounded Rythadine's point and pitched the pieces one after the other toward the crowd of combatants, hoping to confuse any still alive.

"Faelynn!" He roared, "Gather to me or I'll have to treat you the same as the others!"

As he hefted Rythadine in both hands he noticed the bloody footprints that led toward the middle of the room. Someone hastily abandoned this position, he realised as he carved up another redwood table. Breaker would not emulate their foolishness. With his back not far from the Mystic barrier, he could see all that would advance upon him easily. As he finished quartering his second table and flung the pieces into the melee, strange armor grew about him. Bulky blue and white ice encircled his shoulders and chest, thicker and rougher than normal armor. It was all sharp points and razor ridges, and before long it covered his upper body like a porcupine's quills.

Since no one specified their positions, you can assume Josh was sprinting by on whichever table is closest when he attacked, and yes, he attacked everyone but Reine using his fancy new sword. Used Icecraft to make the armor at the end.

[Herald of the Tempest]

Vyraond had two problems coming his way and he had no idea how to critically solve both of them without taking damage. The first problem was the thrust of the Drow to bisect his chest, and run him through. The attack was easy to parry enough, with only minor risk of further injury in her reprieve, but the second problem reared its head with more speed than he had time to process.

His charge was cut short as the elemental human warrior Joshua Cronen used some form of Ice manipulation to attack all the warriors in the chamber. His thigh was cut sharply causing his green eyes to spark into bright lights and he collapsed into a tumble sliding into the table next to the female elf. There was a clatter of noise as the food and plates fell and were smashed asunder, the construct gripping his wounded leg in his hand in sympathetic pain. His other hand reached out to grasp the wooden frame to help him back up. He focused upon the interloper who decided to be a show off, attacking all but one woman and began to diagnose the best course of action. With a satisfied nod he proceeded towards the human male, limping but keeping his blades twitching in his hands as he scraped them against one another.

Perhaps, maybe, someone would aid him in his march against this new threat.